The Schemes of Mice and Men
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Sam, Dean, a witch with bad taste, and even the best laid plans often go awry--especially for the Winchesters.


Title: The Schemes of Mice and Men

Summary: Sam, Dean, a witch with bad taste, and even the best laid plans often go awry--especially for the Winchesters.

A/N: Because it's sendintheclowns' birthday and she is so amazing to me that I owe her this much. Though I am remiss to admit that she in fact beta'ed this piece so it's not much of a gift at all! But she inspired this, she egged me on, and so I told her I would post it for her :) It's incredibly thin on plot so if you're going to nitpick on that, don't bother! I know it has issues. But this isn't about the plot... Oh and this is set S1 or S2, I believe. And I've done the freakishly long one-shot thing again. It's a problem I have but I do not have the energy to post this in two parts.

Disclaimer: Not mine!

-o-

The town was small and the bar was dingy, but _damn_, there were some hot women there.

Blondes, brunettes, even a red head nursing a margarita by the pool table. Short and tall, thin and curvy. Some with tight-fitted, low rise jeans and shiny halter tops that fell above their hipbones. Others in figure-flattering mini-skirts with blouses tucked in but unbuttoned halfway.

It was like he'd died and gone to heaven.

Too bad none of them were the one he was looking for.

Nope. More beauties than he could shake a stick at and he was on the job. Normally that wouldn't stop him from a bit of harmless flirtation, but when the job _was_ flirtation that made things trickier. Because he had to find the right girl and flirt with her. All the rest could only benefit from his salacious glances.

Though if the way that blonde at the other end of the bar seemed to melt into giggles with every turn of his eye, he didn't really need much more than his glances to dominate the room.

That made it worse, actually. The fact that he'd had three women offer to buy him drinks, two slip him their phone numbers on napkins, and one who had already asked if he wanted to get out of here made the fact that he had to say _no_ like cruel and unusual punishment.

But there were lives at stake. And a witch on the loose.

Sitting there, primed and watching all the available non-evil girls go by, he could only think of more reasons why he _really_ hated witches.

He glanced behind him, seeing Sam tucked in the back corner of the bar, a bottle of untouched beer in front of him. Catching his kid brother's eye, Sam returned his cursory look with a scowl, which had Dean raising his eyebrows and turning around. Apparently they couldn't even exchange glances when on the set up. Sam was taking this _way_ too seriously.

Not that Dean didn't really understand. Hell, if their positions had been reversed, Dean would have been more than a little testy. Sure, the plan made sense, as much as any plan of theirs made sense, but he never liked setting Sam up as bait.

Which was exactly why it was him on that barstool looking too suave for his own good. So Sam wouldn't have to.

Not to mention, if the witch was going to pick the prime choice of meat from the bar, then they had a much better shot with Dean.

Even Sam had reluctantly agreed.

So Dean was the bait and Sam was the good little backup, there to track him to the witch's lair.

This witch, after all, now had a string of five men laid up in the morgue, all devoid of energy, strength, and life. It had taken some creative research to figure out it was a witch, but it was the ash smudges on the eyelids that had given it away. The cops had written it off as a weird calling card of a serial killer but it was Sam who had looked at what it was made of and identified it as tried and true witchcraft, probably complete with charred bones and all.

So they knew the what and they sort of knew the who and they seemed to have a vague idea of the where but they had to put it all together, find the witch, find her lair, and crack this case from the inside out.

Which meant Dean had to employ his good looks to get himself taken as victim number six for Sam to trail them and end this witch's little magical killing spree before she knew what hit her little evil, spell-minded, potion-making little head.

The one thing in common between all the men was this bar. They weren't regulars but they'd all found their way here for one reason or another on a Friday night.

And none of them had made it home alive.

That was a pattern Dean was going to stop. And then he was going to come right on back here and knock a few back and find a girl to celebrate with.

Then he saw her.

Tall, trim but solid, long straight blonde hair streaked with deep purple, and lips painted bright red. Her jeans were deep blue and ripped, a flash of tanned skin riding on the bottom hem of her deeply cut shirt. A little skanky, a lot hot, and a great deal witchy.

Why?

Dean could attribute it to his keen sense and his expansive experience with all things supernatural. Or he could say he figured it out from the way her darkly done-up eyes perused the room in a predatory fashion or the way the bartender nodded in familiarity at her.

Or it could be the pentagram necklace she was wearing.

Whatever.

Time to turn on his mojo and get this party started.

-o-

Sam spied her the minute she came in.

He had figured their witch was young, probably attractive, given how many men seemed willing to follow her home to their death. He also had guessed she'd be a regular, but innocuous enough in her presence to avoid any kind of suspicion.

This girl definitely hit the mark.

And the pentagram necklace was a pretty dead giveaway.

He tensed, glancing at his brother, who had also clearly made the witch.

It was show time.

He had to admit, this plan wasn't one of his favorites. There were, after all, quite a few unknowns. Like they didn't know what the witch did to get the guys out of the bar, nor did they know what she did to get them home. Mostly, they didn't know where home was, and Sam was pinning their hopes on being able to track Dean through the abduction process. It was pivotal to find the lair in order to break the spell that the witch clearly had mastered and to destroy her stash of bewitching materials in order to prevent any lingering side-effects from the forces she'd messed with.

The fact that Dean would be _in_ there, set up as victim number six--well, that was an added level of stress Sam wasn't quite ready to deal with.

They'd both lost so much in their life that Sam hadn't even wanted to suggest such a risky plan. This witch wasn't worth it.

But men were dying and they had no other options.

Sam had tried to convince Dean that he could be the bait--that had been how he envisioned it, after all.

Dean, big brother and macho guy that he was, had flatly refused. Sure Dean had cited Sam's lack of wiles when it came to the opposite sex as the reason but Sam knew that his older brother's protective instincts were flaring, too.

Sam had tried to convince him otherwise, but in the end, Dean had been right about one thing: he did fit the profile. The victims had all been self-assured, a good time, the life of the party, handsome and very aware of how to use that to their advantage.

Which was how Sam ended up in the corner booth watching.

It had been a painful forty five minutes, watching Dean ogle every girl in the place, and Sam had wondered if the entire thing would be a bust.

He was almost disappointed when it wasn't.

The girl sauntered through the room, her eyes roaming the patrons as she sidled up to the bar a few seats down from Dean. Dean, glancing back at him, raised an eyebrow before standing up and moving toward her.

Despite the situation, it made Sam smile. Dean, no matter what the context, certainly could never be accused of a lack of confidence when it came to women.

In the noise of the bar, it was hard to hear their conversation, but the words weren't important. He could gather what he needed from their body language.

Dean leaned in close to her, smile flashing across his face.

For most women, Sam knew, that would have been enough to at least hook a conversation.

Their witch was not so easily charmed. She gave Dean a once over, her eyes moving up and down his body, before she turned back to her drink, clearly unimpressed.

His brother spoke to her, undoubtedly offering some kind of lame pick up line that always served to endear him to girls.

The witch barely even looked at him.

Sam's eyes narrowed. She wasn't taking the bait. She wasn't interested.

Dean kept pushing, of course, in typical Dean fashion. His brother was a professional and a flirt and he certainly didn't seem to want to fail at either.

The more he pushed, the less interested the girl looked.

Sam stifled the urge to swear.

They had no other plan. They had no other way to track this witch, no other way to uproot her operation.

She offered Dean a benign smile before excusing herself from the bar. She was heading to a table toward the back of the bar near the jukebox.

They were going to lose her. Or worse, some unsuspecting guy was going to get snared in her trap.

Sam wasn't about to let either of those things happen.

Swallowing, he picked up his beer and stood, ignoring Dean's look as he made his way through the crowd to her table.

When he got there, he realized he had no pick up line to use, he had no idea what he was going to say or do, just that he had to do _something_.

"Hi," he said, feeling awkward. A pause lingered before he swallowed hard and continued. "I like your hair."

She looked up at him, eyebrows raised. She cocked her head, looking at him. "Hi yourself," she replied. "Did you really come all the way over here to just admire my hair?"

"I was, well, wondering if I could join you," Sam ventured, wishing he knew something else to say, something more clever and enticing.

Her lips quirked into a smile. "Well, then," she said. "You better sit down."

"Oh," he said. "Yeah."

"What, suddenly shy?" she asked as Sam sat down. "You're the one who came up to me."

Sam laughed a little, uncomfortably, putting his beer in front of him. "I'm Sam," he said.

"Well, Sam," she said. "My name's Lisa."

Sam licked his lips, wishing he'd thought this through. "Good to meet you, Lisa."

"Oh, Sam," she said, putting her elbows on the table and leaning forward. "The pleasure is all mine."

-o-

Dean didn't just hate witches. It seemed they weren't too fond of him either.

Damn witches. Killing bunnies, casting spells, using hexes, going after the wrong brother.

It was supposed to be him.

He did, after all, fit the profile.

Ruggedly handsome, deeply manly, easily charming. That _was_ Dean's shtick, after all.

Not that Sam wasn't necessarily those things. His kid brother was strong, he knew that much, but Sam certainly didn't carry it the same way Dean did with the leather jacket and smooth swagger. And it wasn't like Sam couldn't get a girl if he wanted to--he had _seen_ Jessica, and it wasn't like Sarah or Madison had been slouches either. But it wasn't Sam's thing. He wasn't smooth. He wasn't macho. He was Sam. Geeky, little brother Sammy.

Except he wasn't.

The woman who had barely given him a second look had taken to Sam like a duck to water. Her entire disposition changed, her indifference melting away to attraction so vibrant that it rolled off of her in waves.

For _Sam_.

But his own confidence in his machismo wasn't the only reason it was supposed to be him. Because he could tolerate watching Sam get some, even from evil spell-casting witches. Hell, Dean had wanted to set the kid up a time or two himself. Sam more than certainly needed a good lay far more often than his prudish little bro cared to admit.

But this wasn't a date. This wasn't casual sex. This was a malicious witch who stalked men and dragged them back to her lair before sucking them dry and leaving their dead bodies in alleyways.

Part of him had believed he was the best choice because he fit the profile. The rest of him hadn't wanted to risk letting Sam play bait.

Because it sucked.

It sucked seeing his brother stalked, seeing the kid look so damn vulnerable. Because despite those freakin' ridiculous muscles, Sam wasn't going to fight back. Sam was going to give in, roll over and let himself get taken by a sadistic bitch who was going to cart him off to the middle of nowhere and try to use her mojo to suck Sam dry.

Man, he needed to think of that in better terms because it was sounding more and more like a porno. And here he was, lurking in the back of the bar, watching as the chick fawned all over Sam, shoving her not-quite-tasteful cleavage up in Sam's face.

Did that make him Sam's pimp?

It didn't matter that he was going to follow Sam. It didn't matter that there was still a plan to kill the bitch before she had a chance to do anything to Sam. It still meant Dean had to stand idly by and let Sam get taken, something which just was _not _in his nature.

In fact, when the witch had ditched him, he'd been ready to find some new way to track her.

Sam had had other ideas.

Sam hadn't even let them talk about it before going out there and setting himself up as the bait. At first, Dean had figured that the witch would ignore Sam's scent just like she'd passed up on his.

Only she didn't.

She was definitely latching onto the kid, leaning close and laughing like any buzzed, forward chick looking for a good night might.

Hence the reason it sucked.

Because he had to watch some _thing_ flirt with Sam. He had to watch Sam play along. And he was going to have to watch Sam get taken out--however that happened--and Dean realized that he hadn't even paid a lot of attention when Sam had been going over the details. After all, Dean hadn't needed to know the details about the pursuit or the kill. That had been Sam's job. Dean's job had been to stand around and look sexy and snark long enough to stay alive.

The best damn laid plans.

He should call the whole thing off right there and then.

Too late.

The girl was standing, her arm lingering on Sam back, her head tilting to the door.

Sam smiled at her, looking far younger than he had any right looking and stood to follow, slapping down a few bills on the table. The witch, all grins now, took Sam's hand in hers and weaved through the crowd, Sam trailing behind.

Deftly, Dean slid out of his booth, laying down his own bill to cover his beer. Slipping through the crowd, he kept his distance but was sure to maintain constant sight of his little brother.

On the street, the girl looped her arm around Sam's back, pulling him close in the crisp air. Sam followed suit, draping his arm across her shoulders. The girl snuggled a bit, and Dean watched her look up at Sam, far too aware of the sinister glint in her eyes.

-o-

It was hard to believe that some men were really stupid enough to go this far. She seemed friendly enough and certainly more than a little attractive, but following strange girls down dark alleys on the first date? Really not so bright.

Still, Sam's hesitations aside, this was part of the plan. The plan that required him to find out where the lair was. Which meant he had to be the victim.

He didn't have to look to know that Dean was following them. His brother may have counted on being the bait tonight, but Dean had taught him everything he knew about thinking on the fly, and Sam could take comfort in that.

Lisa was laughing, leaning into him, her warmth sliding uncomfortably up and down his body. He didn't do this, this kind of physical contact, and he wanted to pull away.

Halfway down the alley, she stopped. "We've just got to find the right door, okay, baby?" she asked.

Perplexed, Sam slowed to look, and that's when she struck.

Her hand yanked hard on his wrist, pulling him off balanced against her. He didn't even get a chance to regain his bearings before her forearm pressed across his neck.

Sam's instincts screamed, the well-ingrained survival tactics drilled into him during his youth flaring up in rapid succession in his brain. He knew a dozen moves, countermoves and escape techniques, all learned by necessity. His father had, after all, been very fond of training them, and as the younger, smaller brother for sixteen years of his life, Sam had learned early on that winning wasn't just getting the submission but it was about staying in the fight as long as he could.

The fact was that Sam was good--he was really good--but Dean had always liked it more. His older brother had wanted it more. Not to mention that Sam's own biology liked to betray him and even when he shot up past his brother in height, he had trouble putting on weight until he was well into college and had stopped caring about that kind of thing.

So Sam knew how to get out of these things. He knew how to stomp hard on the foot and throw an elbow to the gut or throat. He knew about using his fingernails and twisting his body to create a gap in the pressure. He knew these things. It had only taken one successful choke hold from his older brother to motivate him into mastering them.

But he knew he couldn't use a single one of them to help him here. Not when the plan depended on it. Not when stopping this witch before she killed someone else depended on it.

Instead Sam kept his struggles frantic but fruitless, twisting and ineffective clawing, enough to suggest a panic without really giving into it.

He had to admit, though, the witch was surprisingly strong.

The arm wrapped tightly around his neck was firm and unyielding, cutting harshly against his throat and crushing his Adam's apple painfully. The other was stationed skillfully behind his head, steadying him and making him primed for the knockout.

Her strength was unnatural--supernatural. And as his brain fought the ensuing darkness, it occurred to him just what she did. Bodies devoid of strength. Shriveled. Sucked dry. All that strength had to go somewhere and it looked like Lisa was pocketing it as her own.

The revelation satisfied his curiosity but did nothing for his current predicament. Her body felt taut behind him, strong and steady, and it occurred to him that even if he was fighting against her she would have been a formidable opponent.

His neck ached and his lungs grated for air--he could still squeeze some in. It wasn't oxygen deprivation that would do him in this time. No, she didn't want to kill him, she wanted to knock him out, and Sam knew from the angle of her arm across her throat that she knew exactly what she was doing.

The carotid. Compressed under her unwavering grip. It would only take thirty seconds.

Blackness encroached the edge of his vision and he felt his legs go weak. His fingers lost their coordination.

Then the arm behind his head pressed painfully and as the pressure increased, Sam felt his arms go limp a second before the tension left his body entirely and he knew no more.

-o-

It happened faster than Dean had anticipated. Sure, he knew the turn down a dark, lonely alley was probably a sure sign of the abduction to come, but he had expected something more. More flourish. More witchcraft. Something.

So when he saw her leading his kid brother by the hand at the far end, he thought she just wanted an out of the way location for a hex or a spell of sorts.

Instead he saw her fall behind him, her hand still gripping his. Then, with a suddenness that had Dean blinking, she yanked hard on Sam's arm, pulling him back.

Sam, surprised by the movement, stumbled back toward her and Dean felt his breath catch in his throat.

It went against everything--all his training, all his instincts--to stand there and do _nothing_. To stand there while his little brother was attacked. To stand there and let it happen.

With smooth, fluid motions, the witch snaked her free arm around Sam neck, effectively pulling him close. Sam's long legs fumbled to compensate and his entire torso was bent funny by the action. The witch was not short by any stretch of the imagination, but Sam still had a good few inches on her, making the positioning more than a little awkward.

Not that that stopped the spell-casting little tramp. She seemed unconcerned by Sam's flailing, releasing Sam's hand and moving her own behind Sam's head, pressing forcefully on it.

A choke hold.

There would be no curses or bewitching to do the job. She was resorting to an old fashion, martial arts choke out.

Dean's body tensed but he retained his position behind the dumpster. Sam's hands were tapping now, pawing at her arms, which were unyielding in their pursuit. Witch or not, she was strong, which of course made sense. Now he could see what she used the strength for. To dominate other men.

Why? Who the hell knew why? She was a damn little witch and a sadistic one at that. Not to mention she had a complete lack of taste when it came to men.

All beside the point. And the point was a painful to watch display of his little brother being choked out.

What made it all worse was that Dean knew that Sam could get out of it. Strong little witch or not, Sam knew his way around a sparring match and Dean had been far too fond of submission holds for his kid brother not to have mastered the art of escape.

But Sam knew the mission. Sam knew the plan. And Dean did, too. As much as he hated it, Dean knew he had to sit back and let this happen.

The look on Sam's face was measured, but Dean could see the underpinnings of real desperation. Getting choked out wasn't a pleasant experience--not even when you knew what was coming. Their father had had them perfect that move on one another, and it was an exercise Dean had not relished on either end. The sense of panic, the feeling of losing control, the emasculating feeling of losing consciousness--

And Sam was halfway there.

Movements weaker, Sam couldn't have escaped now if he wanted to. His arms pinwheeled for a moment pathetically before coming to rest again on his attacker's. His legs were buckling and Sam's massive frame was wavering in the grip.

The witch for her part was all smiles, looking proudly at the weakening body in her grip.

Dean felt his own breath hitch as she tightened her grip and Sam's struggles decreased again only seconds before Sam gave up the struggle entirely.

Sam's hands fell away, arms swinging limply at his sides. His legs folded and the only thing keeping him from hitting the ground was the witch's strong hold.

Dean gnawed hard at the inside of his cheek. He'd always been trained to let go when the victim went slack, to not take chances with this kind of thing--especially when it came to Sammy. Their little witch, however, did not seem so keen on checking for Sam's health.

Instead she held her grip, giving Sam's lifeless body a good shake.

Long seconds later, after she had garnered no response, she dragged Sam backwards, deeper into the shadow, where she finally released her grip.

Letting go of Sam's neck, she leaned him neatly against her chest as she wormed her arms under Sam's shoulder. His brother's body flopped, slumping against her. Then, skillfully, she lowered him to the ground, until he was stretched out, flat on his back.

Dean knew it should only be a few seconds--choke outs were effective for quickly subduing someone, but they didn't have long lasting effects. Which led to the question: just how on earth was this chick going to get all 6 foot 4 inches of Sam out of there before the unconscious Sasquatch came to?

And why the hell wasn't Sam stirring?

The witch looked focused now, pulling something out of her jacket pocket and even in the dimness and from a distance, Dean knew her next step wouldn't be a martial arts move.

She bent over Sam, who shifted a little at her presence. Dean watched as his brother's head began to roll, his legs moving slightly as his consciousness began to return.

A smug smile crossed the witch's face and she dipped her finger in the bag she had extracted from her pocket. With quick strokes, she smudged something on Sam's forehead and then across each of his eyelids. Sam's body tensed and shuddered under her touch before going disturbingly boneless yet again.

"Hey, buddy!" a voice called, right behind him.

Dean startled, suddenly aware that though he was crouching behind a dumpster hidden from the witch's view, he was still painfully visible from the street.

Whirling, Dean found himself face to face with a uniformed cop. "Officer!" he said.

The cop looked at him critically, glancing up the alleyway before turning his eyes back to Dean. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Dean said quickly. "Never better."

"So is there a reason you're loitering behind a dumpster?"

Dean's mouth opened and closed before a lie came to mind. "I dropped my phone," Dean said. "You know, I was going to dial and got a little too excited and next thing I knew the damn thing was flying all over the place."

The cop raised an eyebrow. "You find it."

"Find it?" Dean asked dumbly.

"Your phone."

"Oh," Dean said, he felt at his pockets, pulling it out. "Look at that. There it is."

The cop looked annoyed and bored. "Okay, buddy, lay off of the drinks for the rest of the night," the cop said. "You probably ought to head home."

"Will do," Dean agreed readily.

It was nearly physically painful to watch the cop leave so slowly. Once Dean was clear, he whirled back to the alley, his eyes searching it desperately for any sign of Sam or their not-so-friendly witch.

Nothing.

Trying to control the panic surging in his stomach, he moved into the alley, eyes darting all around, looking for any sign.

Nothing.

Darken windows and shadowed doorways. Rank dumpsters and even a chained bicycle. The alley was divided by a dark an imposing chain-link fence.

But no witch and certainly no little brother but plenty of ways out.

Dean swore.

He'd lost them. He'd already failed to pick up the witch and now he couldn't even keep his eyes on them long enough to track them.

Clenching his teeth, he pulled his cell phone back out of his pocket. Luckily this wasn't the first time he'd lost Sam.

Dialing, he tapped his foot impatiently, his eyes still searching the alley for any sign, for any hint of which way they'd gone.

When the voice on the other end answered, Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah, I need to get a trace on a cell phone..."

-o-

Returning to consciousness was just about as unpleasant as leaving it, which made him remember why he hated to get knocked out at all.

Not only did it hurt, not only was it more than a bit embarrassing, but there was that moment of uncertainty, floating between unconsciousness and wakefulness when he wasn't sure where he was or how he got there and he couldn't even muster up the coherency to feel rightly panicked.

The witch.

The alley.

He'd been choked out by the witch in the alley.

Full awareness flooded back to him and he jerked himself awake.

Which was when he realized the ordeal was far from over.

There was no longer a dark alley. Now he was in a window-less room, shadows dancing with flickering candlelight. The walls were cinderblock and it smelled musty with a strange conglomeration of furniture that had surely seen better days.

He was also chained to the floor.

Spread-eagle, no less.

Not to mention stripped to his boxers.

Straining, he tried to look around, looking down the lengths of his arms and legs which were pulled tightly away from his body and secured to the floor. The cement he was laying on wasn't just cold, he could also see that it was decorated with symbols, some he recognized, some he didn't, all of which were likely designed with nefarious purposes in mind.

Well, this wasn't good.

The fact that this was technically still part of the plan really didn't do much to assuage the trepidation gnawing at his gut.

There was a sound and a movement, and Sam strained to see. Above his head, he could make out a figure, a human figure.

Lisa.

The witch was still garbed in her bar hopping ensemble but she was leaning over a table that was strewn with items that did not look pleasant. Sam could only speculate that it was her work space, or perhaps an altar depending on just what brand of witchcraft she was practicing.

She turned and met his eyes, a smile spreading over her face. "You're awake."

"Where am I?" Sam ground out, more out of reflex than anything. Truthfully where he was didn't matter to him--it mattered to Dean who was tracking him. Still, gleaning what information he could would only be helpful--if not to his master plan, than to postponing whatever ends Lisa had in mind.

She glanced around absently. "A little place I can call my own," she said with a shrug. "And a little place where no one will bother us."

She had turned back to her table, picking up a small bowl and sniffing it.

"I realize we wanted to have some fun tonight," Sam said, pulling again at his bonds. "But if I had known you were into this kind of thing..."

Picking up a vial, she poured something else into the bowl before sloshing it around. She grinned. "Aw, baby, I know it's a little kinky, but trust me when I say we'll both get off on it, okay?"

Sam chortled nervously. "Is that why you knocked me out?"

She raised her eyebrows, circling Sam until she was standing over him. "Isn't that what guys want? A girl who is forward? They say it's a turn on."

"There's forward and then there's sadistic," Sam said.

She licked her lips, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Baby, you have no idea," she said. Crouching, her eyes roved over his body before settling on his face again. "A big strong guy like yourself. Come on. You can't say you've never wanted to do this to a girl before. Use your strength. Force them into submission."

Sam's brow furrowed. "I tend to prefer things to be a bit more consensual."

The humor faded a little from her eyes. "But that's what guys do," she continued. "Flaunt their strength. Use it to their advantage." With one hand, she ran her fingers up and down the muscles of his arm. "Why else would you bother toning these muscles so much?"

"Exercise makes you feel good," Sam offered. "You know. Endorphins."

She laughed mirthlessly, pushing to her feet again. "I do know," she said. "And I will know again tonight. I know what it feels like to be strong. What it feels like to have power and to use it against people. There's no better rush."

Sam swallowed, feeling uncomfortable. His own vulnerability at the moment was making him feel more than a little anxious. Where was his brother?

Lisa was mixing in a few more ingredients, oblivious to Sam's growing sense of uncertainty. "The strong take what they want," she said. "So I told myself I will always be strong and no one will ever take anything from me again."

Sam pretty much figured that any witch practicing this level of witchcraft to these ends was a little nutty in the end, probably a bit sociopathic, but Lisa? Lisa was talking a whole new level of crazy. The quest for power and control was fundamental to any pursuit of evil, that much Sam knew, but so literally?

"So what?" Sam ventured, not just because he actually wanted to know but because, while he had no doubt Dean was on his way, he didn't want to give Lisa a chance to start whatever she was planning. "You just going to get your kicks by tying me to the floor?"

Her smile broadened and she turned back to Sam. "Oh, Sam," she said, moving toward him, bowl in hand. "It's not just about dominating you, which I've already so clearly done. It's about taking it _from_ you."

Swallowing convulsively, Sam eyed the bowl and then looked at Lisa again. "I don't think I understand."

"Let's just say I'm not your ordinary girl," she said. "And I've got some extraordinary friends."

"You're serious?" Sam asked, even though he was all too aware that she was.

"It's amazing the things you can do when you tap into the dark forces," she said, giving the bowl a shake. "A little animal blood, some herbs, some other less delectable items, and I have the power to summon inner strength."

"Wouldn't a self-help book do the trick?" Sam asked.

"It's not _my _strength I'm calling on," she said, dipping her fingers in the concoction. "It's yours. This is just the sacrifice to appease the demons who are going to help me get it from you."

She traced the chalked symbols on the floor, which came away tinged with red.

Which made sense, really. He had known it was a ritual of some sort, he just hadn't been sure the nature of it. Lisa was relying on a demonic source to do her dirty work. And given that all her victims had been formally well-built, athletic men found emaciated? She wasn't just stealing their life force like a shtriga. She was literally sucking their strength, sapping them until literally they had nothing left to sustain themselves.

And why? To get the power herself, which explained why she was able to overpower her victims.

But still--there had to be a motive. People weren't just evil, not like demons. There was something more to all of this, and if Sam wasn't quite so tied and half-naked, he might have flashed his puppy dog eyes at her to figure this out.

But he was chained and half naked, not to mention spread-eagle and already halfway entrenched in some demonic summoning ritual that he would not come out on the good end of.

"But why?" Sam asked, tensing uncontrollably as her fingers danced near him and she shifted to trace the symbols that weaved between his legs.

She grinned, moving downward, situating herself near his exposed midsection. "I need a why?"

"Nice girl like you," Sam ground out, trying not to flinch as Lisa's fingers nicked the inside of his things. "Surely you can get your kicks the old fashion way."

She stepped over Sam's leg, crouching on the opposite side now, her fingers still dancing on the ground. "Aw, come on, baby," she said. "Most of the guys still think this is a turn on at this point."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "I'm not quite into kinks."

Shrugging, she moved up toward Sam's head, wetting her fingers again in the bowl. They came away dripping with red. "You are different," she said. "Not like the others. Usually I pick up the jerks. The ones who deserve it."

"People deserve this?"

Her eyes darkened and she stood, taking the bowl back to the table. "People who did it to me," she said slowly. "The macho ones, the ones who like to flaunt their bulging muscles like it makes a difference."

And there it was. Even tied to the floor, exposed and vulnerable, Sam could put two and two together. "You were attacked."

Her face lost its humor and she moved away from the table, standing over Sam with coldness in her eyes. "Some _guy_," she spat. "Offered to take me home. We only made it to the alley. Next thing I knew, he had me around the neck and I passed out. When I came to it was all over. Half naked in a pile of trash."

Sam couldn't help it. He knew what she was. He knew what she'd done to other men. He knew what she was doing to him. But the flash of sympathy in him could not be squelched--evil was not pure and simple. Evil was couched in reasons and motivations, sometimes in the best of intentions or the worst of grief. "I'm sorry," he said. "I would never--"

She tossed her head and moved back to the table, fingering the contents for her potion again. "One guy, all guys," she said. "You're not the usual type. But I saw you there, in that bar, and I didn't care if you were the type. I wanted you for me. Not because you fit the pattern. I'm entitled to what _I_ want sometimes, aren't I?"

Sam pulled against his bonds, fully realizing just how dire this was. Witches weren't fun to deal with in the best of circumstances. A straight up need for power was one thing. One so muddled by revenge--well, that was downright dangerous. And if Dean didn't hurry up...

Dean would be here. Dean _would_. Sam just had to stall. Keep her talking.

"No one should have to go through that kind of thing," Sam agreed with her.

She turned back to him, grinning. "And I won't," she said and Sam's throat tightened as he tried to still the nerves twitching through his exposed body. "Nope. Now it's _your_ turn."

-o-

He didn't have to double check the coordinates.

Nope, the minute the operator told him where the cell phone signal was, Dean knew he was screwed.

Because those coordinates? Those oh-so-helpful little numbers he'd been counting on? Told him that Sam was right here. Not in the alley, of course, because Dean had checked the alley. No, Sam was in one of the surrounding buildings.

Which, damn, they should have figured that out sooner. Super-powered or not, he didn't know of a witch who had mastered the art of teleportation. And Dean's back had only been turned for a minute, just long enough for her to drag Sam into one of the building.

It all made sense. The perfect hiding place was right there in plain sight. No messy issues of transportation. Just drop and drain and ditch all in one convenient location.

So not only was it a sadistic little witch with bad taste but a damn confident one at that.

Dean moved along the edges of the buildings, pushing at the doors and kicking at the windows.

Everything was secure. Locked solid.

Sure, she could have locked up after herself, so how was he supposed to know where to go? All signs of Sam's struggle were nonexistent. There was no trail. Nothing. Sam was just gone and Dean had missed it.

Which of course totally defeated the purpose of the plan.

But what the hell--the plan had been shot to hell the minute their little strength whore had turned her nose up at him and taking a liking to Sam instead. If the kid had just waited, had just let them regroup before going after her again, the plan might have been a little more clear.

He glanced at his watch. It'd only been ten minutes. He'd only lost track of Sam for ten minutes.

It was little assurance, though. The bodies always turned up in less than 12 hours of when they went missing. She wasn't one to drag it out. What Dean didn't know was how long the ritual took, just what it involved, how long he had before Sam suffered irreparable damage from it all?

He was getting ahead of himself. This was just another hunt and Dean was still a damn good hunter. He could track a Wendigo through a forest, he could certainly track a witch out of an alley, especially one dragging a gigantic little brother in tow behind her.

Moving swiftly, he went back to where he'd seen the witch take Sam down. The area was about two-thirds of the way down the alley and conspicuously distant from any of the doorways, all of which were locked tightly, some almost rusted in place. The closest window was easily reached but well blocked by cast iron bars.

Crouching, Dean examined the ground, making out the imprints of his little brother's body in the dirt and sediment on the ground. Eyeing the alley, however, there was no evidence of Sam being dragged anywhere.

Hell, there wasn't even much evidence of footprints for the skank. Which meant she could either fly or--

Dean looked up.

The drop down ladder of a fire escape was above his head.

Well, that was a bit too much of a coincidence.

It seemed physically impossible. Sam was a big guy--Dean doubted that he would have been able to haul Sam's unconscious ass up there himself.

Whatever this witch was doing, she was working a supercharged angle--especially given she'd overpowered her victims.

It didn't matter. He could sit around and ponder her reasons why after he ganked her. Hell, Sammy could even go all emo and big eyed over the one they couldn't save for all Dean cared, as long as they were doing it together.

With a small jump, he caught the lowest rung of the ladder and hoisted himself up.

-o-

"I know this has been a long build up," Lisa said, a little apologetic. "Usually I like to take these things slow. Enjoy them. It only seems right. But you're not like them."

Somehow that didn't make Sam feel much better. "Lisa, you don't have to do this."

"This has never been about what I _have_ to do," she said, moving toward him. She lingered above him, making eye contact. "This is about justice. This is about making sure that no one takes advantage of me again."

"Lisa, I know what you're doing. I know about the other men you've murdered. I know about the witchcraft and I know you're planning on calling a demon here."

She cocked her head, mildly impressed. "Do you?"

"Yes," Sam said, resisting the urge to pull fruitlessly at his bonds. His wrists already hurt and he was sure he could feel blood on his ankles. "And I'm sorry about what's happened to you, but, this, what you're doing, it's not right."

"What makes you think I care about what's _right_," she said. "It would have been _right_ for the cops to do _something_ about what happened to me. It would have been _right_ for the guy who attacked me to go to prison. He didn't. So I did what I had to do to make it _right_."

"Through witchcraft? I know some of those symbols," Sam said, jerking his head to the floor. "That's some hardcore stuff right there. This demon you're calling, it may be helping you now, but it's not your friend. There will be a price to pay."

She stepped over him, hands on her hips, looking down at him, a smirk on her face. "Selling my soul?" she asked with an incredulous laugh. "You think there's anything _left_ of my soul after what he _took _from me? I don't care about eternity for me. I care about eternity for _them_. For those _guys_. And this power? This power doesn't have to end with this life. It carries with me no matter where I go. It's physical, mental, emotional, spiritual. And it's _mine_."

-o-

The first landing offered a dilapidated window. At first glanced, it looked unused. The glass was cracked and scuffed and the paint on the sill was chipped. Leaning close, Dean tried to peer in, catching a glimpse of a dark room.

There was nothing noteworthy about it. It looked abandoned, a few pieces of furniture still littering it. An empty pizza box was open in the corner, crumbs and grease stains still visible.

All in all, nothing to see there.

Which was exactly why Dean felt it needed to be checked out.

Moving his fingers along the sill, he looked for a weakness, for some sign of entry. Witchcraft or super-strength, the witch would have an easy in and out.

The window, however, appeared solidly in place, weathered closed with time.

Or not.

Along the bottom edge, he felt a draft. A warm one.

Who heated an abandoned apartment?

No one. The city wouldn't waste the money. The super wouldn't take the hit.

This apartment wasn't abandoned; it just looked that way.

With new resolve, Dean began his search anew before he realized that now was not the time for delicacy. Who the hell cared if he broke a window? Sam was _missing_ and Dean had to _find him_. Everything else? Irrelevant.

Pulling his gun from the back of the jeans, he turned it hilt first, smashing at the window.

It cracked and Dean brought it down again, harder this time.

He was rewarded with a shatter, and shards of glass fell away to the iron fire escape.

A few more strikes and there was enough of an opening for Dean to work with. Using his jacket-clad arm, he pushed away the shards, making enough room for himself to slide in without slicing himself to hell.

Inside, he knew his instincts were right. Not only was the place heated, but it smelled of incense and decay. Both fresh.

Cautiously, he moved forward, gun still drawn, scouting the room with an air of anxiety.

At the doorway, he paused, peeking his head through before slipping through, gun in hand. The next room was a stark contrast to the last. Though it was still dark and a bit dingy, it was definitely lived in.

The furniture was nothing fancy, but clean, if mismatched. There was a TV and a coffee table with a cooled cup of coffee on it. On the far wall was a bookshelf.

Uncertain, Dean lingered, taking in the rooms, trying to put together the clues. An apartment half abandoned, half lived in. Either the inhabitant didn't need the extra space or didn't want people to know someone was there.

The entire building was mostly commercial, Dean recalled. It was just down the street from the bar, and the front had housed some kind of restaurant, Chinese maybe, which might account for the smell.

So there wouldn't be a lot of neighbors, but there'd be plenty of noise. Ideal for hiding something.

Looking closer, he began to make out the titles on the bookshelf.

Wiccan history. Modern witchcraft. Those could be innocent enough. Most people who practice what was considered modern day witchcraft didn't dabble with anything powerful enough to do any damage. Dean wouldn't consider it smart by any stretch of the imagination, but it was hardly something he lost sleep over.

But there were more books. The Dark Arts. Spell books. The kind that Bobby had in his library.

Those were not so innocuous. In the hands of a hunter, they could be helpful.

In the hands of a dark witch with less than stellar intentions all it meant was bad news.

This was definitely where their witch called home. But it wasn't her lair.

For the kind of thing she was doing, for the ability to drain a person dry the way she'd been doing, she'd have to have materials and lots of them. And not nice ones. Probably animal blood, there were probably bats involved.

And an altar. She'd have an altar because one thing Dean knew now better than ever was that to wield true dark power required working with demons.

But he was close. He knew he was. She'd taken Sam through here, but it was just a pass through to get to the main show.

Dean found a bathroom and a kitchen, both dead ends. Nothing of interest and no place to set up shop to commit murder.

So where? A basement? She wouldn't have easy access to the basement, Dean wouldn't figure, though the thing could be abandoned.

But wasn't that more than a bit cliche?

Still, he had nothing else to go on.

Determined, he went to the front door and opened it, finding himself in an empty, long hall. The smell of Chinese was stronger now, and Dean could guess that the opening at the far end would lead to the back areas of the restaurant.

Which meant his best bet was the other direction.

The opposite side of the hall was devoid of doors, probably because the next building was right there. At the other end Dean could see another stairwell, this one likely to an exit.

Chinese food or an exit.

Screw it all. Dean just wanted his brother.

Gun still drawn, he made his way toward the exit.

-o-

She sidled down, the bare flesh of her thigh warm against his chest. Her fingers kneaded into his shoulders and she smiled. "This one is _definitely _for me," she said. She let her fingers linger down his arms and up again. "When I started these rituals, I had no idea it would be so intimate."

Intimate was hardly the word for it. Her touch was warm and soft and pervasive, and Sam willed his body not to respond.

He turned his head away from her, clenching his teeth and closing his eyes.

Laughing, she leaned down, her hair dancing across his naked chest. "It's okay to like it," she said.

"Lisa, please," he ground out. "I don't--"

"Want this?" she asked, her mouth touching down on his chest. "Your mind is telling you that, but, baby, listen to your body."

He was and he tried anew to pull away. He'd signed on to play bait, to let her set up her ritual, but this was not part of what he'd counted on.

Her mouth trailed down his torso and he flinched. When her fingers tickled the top of his underwear, he couldn't help but whimper.

Feeling the tension, she paused sitting up, still perched over him. Her hands rested on his chest. "You're really that uncomfortable?" she asked, oddly aware and almost sympathetic.

"I don't want this," he said. "Please."

She looked thoughtful for a moment before pursing her lips. "You're not like the others," she said again. "Normally I wouldn't care what they want."

Sam felt hope build in him.

Her demeanor shifted and she straightened herself. "Then no foreplay for you," she said. "We'll just get straight down to business."

And just like that, Sam felt his hope plummet.

Dean needed to get here. Soon. Because no foreplay might spare him some indignity, but it would only take him one step closer to an end he really wanted to avoid.

-o-

Dean was close.

Granted, there were no telltale signs that he was following at this point. No, right now it was all instinct, all in his gut, that innate big brother sense that he was almost there.

There was no room for him to believe otherwise. The clock was ticking, fast and furious, and his little brother was depending on him to not become a human version of a prune.

It was a good thing his mind was moving too fast to dwell on that less than savory image.

He'd seen Sam after long baths as a child, after all.

He so needed to focus right now.

The door at the end of the hall had opened into a dark stairwell, which wound both up and down. He had considered checking out the upper floors, but his gut told him basement. Cliched, yes, but Dean had trusted his instincts in more situations than this and he didn't have time to second guess himself now.

When he reached the basement, he found the place much cleaner than he'd expected. Some chairs, some cheesy Chinese decor, some boxes.

No altar. No witch. No Sam.

Maybe he'd been wrong.

No, he wasn't wrong. He could _feel_ it.

Then he saw the door.

At the far end, not blocked like the rest. The path to it, in fact, was oddly cleared. Like it'd been accessed frequently.

As he approached, he felt the shift in energy and the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

Gripping his gun tighter, he paused behind it, listening.

Then he heard the chanting.

Chanting in a dark basement?

That was their witch all right.

Which meant Sammy was there as well.

Time for one big rescue, Winchester style.

Fingers on the doorknob, Dean took a deep breath, before pushing the door open and charging in.

-o-

The words weren't Latin, Sam was certain of that much. Probably an earlier derivation, something even more ancient, even more obscure.

Which usually meant that the power that was being summoned was all the nastier.

Which crap.

Lisa was still straddling him, her arms pushing down hard on his shoulders and her eyes closed as she chanted. Sam tried to buck, wanted to, but the chains were solid and immovable, and the weight of Lisa's toned body made it a little hard to breathe.

Then he felt it. A shift in energy, almost imperceptible but there. A coldness tickling the exposed length of his skin.

A smile crept across Lisa's face as she continued to chant, almost moaning the words now, and Sam could only wonder where the hell his brother was.

His mind scrambled, trying to think of some kind of counter curse, a protection ritual, something, anything, but all he could come up with was panicked reality that this would be a crappy way to die.

A wind picked up with a howl and Lisa opened her eyes, the smile sickeningly content across her face now. "It's time, Sam," she said and Sam wanted to say no, it wasn't, but then he saw the flash of black in her eyes.

She wasn't possessed, but she sure as hell wasn't alone in there.

That's when it occurred to him that the ritual, her need for demonic assistance, probably meant summoning a demon and letting it work through her to get what she wanted. She could attain the high of strength she craved and the demon got a taste of mortality. A win-win all around.

Well, except for him, of course.

Which reminded him that he really needed to stop thinking so damn much when he was about to die.

He didn't have a chance to utter a word before Lisa plunged her lips toward his and caught his mouth in a kiss that he was unprepared for. For a second, he thought maybe she'd changed her mind about the whole foreplay thing, but it only took a second before his entire body jolted with cold.

His strength. She was taking it. Taking his strength, his life essence, all of it, like the shtriga only more pervasive.

Faster and more painful, too.

She took a deep breath, sucking hard into his mouth and his body jerked with it, almost as if he were feeling the ripping of synapses in his body.

The dark power wormed its way through every cell in his body, and he felt it, he _felt_ it as clearly as he felt the cold floor under his bare back and the warmth of Lisa's thighs against his chest. Felt it like her tongue in his mouth and the bite of the shackles into his appendages.

So this was what it felt like to die.

Damned if he never wanted to feel this way again.

Which, if Lisa had her way, he wouldn't.

She bore down again, harder this time, but Sam's voice was gone. The tension was leaving his limbs, depriving him even of the ability to strain in resistance.

It was almost over.

And where the hell was Dean?

-o-

Dean wasn't sure what he was expecting.

The witch, yes. Some kind of weird satanic ritual, most likely. And his little brother, totally.

So, yeah, all three of those things were present, he just didn't expect it to be quite like that.

In fact, he was so distracted by the fact that Sam was nearly naked, tied down to the floor, mounted by the blonde from the bar that for a second he wondered if Sam had been captured at all or if he was just engaged in some weird sexual kink that Dean wanted to know nothing of.

But there was the altar and the reddish markings on the floor and the way Sam's body was taut against the girl on top of him.

The girl who, if Dean could tell, was making out with his brother?

Though, from the look of it, it wasn't exactly consensual and given the dark vibrations in the room, it wasn't exactly platonic, romantic, or sexual.

And that was all he needed to see.

"Hey!" he called, his voice cutting through the energy.

The witch jerked up, surprised, her eyes flashing darkly as she took in Dean's presence.

She was human, Dean remembered. One screwed up chick, but human nonetheless, which was the only reason he hesitated to pull the trigger.

A hesitation he would live to regret.

She lunged, pushing up off of Sam, and moving straight to Dean. By the time Dean's mind let himself pull the trigger, she was moving too fast and his shot went wide, imbedding into the concrete walls.

Dean didn't have time to bemoan that mistake because she was on him, taking him to the ground with a force that shocked the hell out of him. He'd guessed all along she was super-charged, but feeling it first hand was unnerving.

She was on top of him now, her fist flying against his face and Dean worked in vain to raise the gun to finish her off.

But her blows were strong--stronger than most guys or ghosts he'd tangled with. It was almost like a sparring session gone awry with Sam, it carried that much force.

Dean spit a curse, pushing hard to unseat her.

She had started the ritual. This _was _like fighting his brother, because she's started taking his strength.

He was on top for only a moment before she used the momentum to tumble them again before they both crashed into the wall. Dean's head spun and he realized he'd lost his gun.

Before he could take another moment to figure out where it had fallen and just how screwed he was, she was pounding on him.

Stars were exploding behind his eyes and for a second he couldn't remember how it had ended up like this. He was supposed to be saving Sam. No, check that, he was supposed to be the one tied spread \-eagle to the floor. This part of the plan was _Sam's_.

Sam.

If he didn't do something soon, he'd be unconscious and this freaky-ass witch would be able to not only finish him off, but finish Sam off, and what kind of big brother would he be if he let that happen?

A big brother who was getting his head pounded in by some witch on a power trip.

Arms up, he went on the defense, hoping to gain enough of a reprieve to figure out his next move. In the flurry of activity, he could see Sam on the ground.

Then, there. The altar. He had to get to the altar.

But then he was being pulled, yanked hard, until he was up and not just to his feet, but in the air. flying with a power he would expect from demons or ghosts.

And no, that never ended well.

He wasn't surprised by the feeling of the wall against his back, smacking hard against his head. He wasn't even surprised by the instant of blinding pain and the subsequent draw of darkness.

No, not surprised.

Just disappointed. Pissed. Scared.

And he didn't feel himself hit the floor.

-o-

It took Sam a moment to realize it had stopped.

It being whatever demonic process Lisa was using. Stopped being...well, Sam wasn't sure about that one yet. He still felt disconnected from his body, like he wasn't sure he was really in it anymore.

It took Sam another moment that it had stopped and that he wasn't dead. He sort of wished he was given the weird numbness that had a firm hold of his body, but he was sort of glad he wasn't because dying wasn't really high on his list of things to try today.

Moreover, if it had stopped, then it had stopped for a reason. And given that Lisa didn't seem to have much of a conscience left in her emotionally bankrupt, he was pretty sure that Dean had something to do with it.

By the time he figured that much out, he realized he was still strapped to the floor and that Lisa wasn't there anymore, but given the sounds nearby, she was still around.

So was Dean.

That was about the time Sam's eyes really began working again, at least in a rudimentary kind of way, and though it took him a long, hard moment to crane his head up, he saw his brother engaged in what looked to be pretty hardcore one-on-one with Lisa.

And it wasn't going well.

Lisa was manhandling Dean, a feeling Sam remembered all too well, but worse this time because the blonde witch seemed to have ramped it up a notch.

Which, really made sense since Sam felt so weak.

Which also made sense since Dean would never get his ass handed to him so readily by anybody or anything, especially a witch.

Which also meant that they were all screwed. Well, Dean and him, anyway. Because if Dean didn't manage to defeat Lisa, then Lisa would have her way with Sam and him, and that wasn't a something Sam really wanted to think about.

Not to mention the fact that if he died and if Dean died then who knows how many more people would die before another hunter caught wind of all this and really, more deaths was not something Sam wanted on his conscience right now.

Though, he supposed being dead sort of negated the idea of a conscience.

He needed to stop thinking metaphysically when he was half-dead. It didn't do him any good.

As in, it didn't help him escape.

With renewed effort, he tried to move his arms again before recalling that even if he had strength left to lift them, they were pretty well shackled to the floor.

So movement was out.

Which left...

Well...

Words. It left words.

Dean always accused him of wanting to talk too much, so he might as well make it count. He might die devoid of strength and tied down to the floor but he didn't have to die silently.

Besides, he needed to give Dean enough time to get his stuff together. To at least overturn the altar.

Opening his mouth, nothing came out and his throat felt dry and he winced, gagging a little at the effort it took.

There was fresh ruckus over by his brother and Sam strained to see but couldn't make out much more than a blur of bodies and a hard thudding sound.

"Hey!" Sam tried again, relieved this time when sound came out.

It had gotten quieter and he could just make out Lisa, standing with a smug look on her face, but not looking at Sam. Looking at Dean.

And Dean...where was Dean?

"Hey," Sam tried again, hoping to pull something like malice into his voice but failing pretty miserable.

Lisa spared him a glance, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

"Pick on someone," Sam heaved, "your own size."

She laughed, giving her blonde hair a shake. "What, like you?" she asked with a snort. "If I didn't like you so much, I might just leave you like that."

Sam wasn't sure if that meant just tied to the floor or mostly drained of strength. Knowing his luck, both.

"So this is what you do?" he ventured. He couldn't see Dean, couldn't hear Dean, and that wasn't a good sign and he needed time. He needed much more time. "You take strength from people and use it against others?"

She moved back toward him, standing over him thoughtfully. "Not usually so dramatically," she said. "But there's something funny going on here, isn't there? I mean, that guy showing up? After all those passes he made at me in the bar?"

"Maybe he liked you," Sam said.

Her eyes narrowed and her smile grew pointed as she squatted next to Sam. "And I thought you were a nice guy," she purred. "I was going to spare you the worst parts and make it quick. But you're hunters, I think. I've been warned by others about your type. Maybe when more hunters find your bodies, they'll think twice about messing with me."

With that, she swung herself over Sam again, bearing her full weight on his chest remorselessly. Leaning forward, she tangled her hands in his hair, pulling his head back viciously. Sam tried to strain away but it was useless. Even if he had some strength left and even if she didn't have his pulsing through her body, his position offered him no leverage.

Bending down, she breathed heavily on him. "You smell of fear now," she mused. "Pathetic. I get it now, though. The power rush that comes from dominating things. That's why I can't stop. Why I _won't _stop. And to think, I was going to show you some compassion."

Her lips pressed down hard on his and Sam felt himself shudder as the last of his meager reserves were shaken. Darkness encroached on his vision and he felt like he was suffocating.

She pulled away though, grinning madly. "But you were just the bait to trap me," she said. "Let me know how that plan worked for you, okay?"

Sam didn't have time to respond, not that he could at this point. She ravaged him again, the jolt of her attack rattling him so deeply that Sam was sure his very essence ached. This had to be like dying, which meant he had to _be_ dying.

Which wasn't very good at all.

His mind was racing, tripping, slowing down, clogging, and all he could think about was the need for date rape prosecution and his brother's unwavering propensity to get thrown into walls.

-o-

He had a headache.

Normally, he might just attribute this to a terrible diet and living out of the Impala. He loved his car, but comfort was not exactly one of its biggest attributes.

Secondary causes of headaches included hangovers and listening to Sam ramble on about the ancient roots of the latest exorcism they came across.

But he wasn't in the Impala, he was painfully sober, and Sam was...

Sam was tied up.

The witch.

Damn. The witch had thrown him into the wall. That explained the headache at least, but it just opened up a whole new can of worms that he had to figure out.

Namely, where was their witch, where was Sam, and could Dean still save the day in typical big brother fashion?

Opening his eyes would probably be the first step.

It was that nagging fear for his brother's safety and that insatiable need to do his duty that made Dean open his eyes despite the throbbing in his skull and the weird sense of heaviness in his limbs.

What he saw, however, was not exactly very encouraging.

He supposed the scene was to be expected. Sam still tied to the ground, still disturbingly mostly naked. And worse, the blonde witch with no taste in men and a freaky-ass superpowered bod was literally mounted on Sam and seemed to have her tongue shoved down Sam's throat.

So either the witch was deeply sexually charged in a really unsettling way or she was about to finish whatever ritual it was she had started on Sam.

It didn't matter which, really. Dean wasn't about to let his little brother get seriously groped any more than he was going to let him get sucked bone dry until he was nothing but a shriveled excuse for a man.

Now was not the time for headaches or musings or anything. Now was the time to save his brother's ass and finish this god-forsaken hunt before he had any more of a headache than he already did.

He was on his feet when he remembered the utter lack of a plan. His gun was...somewhere. The witch was unnaturally strong. And Dean wished that he'd paid a bit of attention when Sam had delineated his options for ending this. There was something about incantations, about bondage, the altar...

The altar!

Take the simple route. Avoid confrontation. Avoid the possibility of failure. Overturn the altar and the entire thing just falls apart. With any luck, the ritual would not only be halted, but it might be reversed and their witch might just go back to being a power-hungry little bitch.

His vision was a little clearer now, clear enough to see that Sam's body was tense and more than clear enough to feel the evil vibrating throughout the room. He needed to end this--now.

It only took a few steps, stumbling as they were, before he reached the altar. He didn't spare the time to look at it, to analyze its content, to do anything. He heard a yell, a screech, and he was turning the table, sending it flying with a clatter to the floor.

Debris scattered. Parts skittered across the floor and Dean felt his chest heave with relief.

"No!" the witch was yelling, and Dean turned around to see her flying toward him. "What have you done?"

Dean just grinned. "Sorry, sister," he said. "I wasn't so fond of your decorating."

Her eyes were wide and they were turning hard with rage. Rage that turned just that fast to terror before she even had a chance to respond.

And terror Dean got. Because whatever she was messing with, whatever this was an altar to, it wasn't going to be very happy about the current state of affairs. He'd seen what a reaper had done to Sue Ann. He'd guessed what they could have done to the likes of Meg had she not actually been a demon herself. Whatever power this chick was wielding, it wasn't just from her victims. Her spells had power from the demons she was summoning.

All well in good as long as all her i's were dotted and t's were crossed.

Not so good when all the contents of her altar were spread haphazardly across the floor. Blood, bones, charred somethings-or-other and any other freakish thing.

He'd done what he had to do to save Sam's life.

There was nothing he could have done for her, not even if he wanted to.

Which, well, he didn't. Since she was a witch who had killed about five people and had tried to kill his brother after groping him. And then, of course, there was her complete lack of taste, which normally he wouldn't have held such a grudge about, but she simply was not high on his list of people to have pity for.

So when the air cracked and something bright flashed and he heard her scream, he got his priorities in order and ducked.

The screaming went on for a few seconds, strangled and pained, and they were cut off in a blast of light that Dean could see from behind closed lids.

And just like that, it was over. The whole painful, screwed up, angst-ridden night was _over_.

Well, almost.

Dean hesitated, then opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was hard to miss--there, on the floor, a small, shriveled mess. It was almost unrecognizable except for the blonde hair with hints of purple.

Suddenly Dean had the urge to hurl.

Whatever Lisa had done, he wasn't sure he'd thought she'd deserved _that_. Not just death, but...she looked empty and vacant, limp and flaccid, a deflated version of a human being.

Dean had seen her victims, he _knew_ she was evil, but...damn. She'd gotten what she dished out and then some. Of all the ways to go, it certainly didn't look pleasant and if she hadn't been a damn witch, he might have felt sorry for her.

But she _was_ a witch and one who had nearly...

Sam.

Focus renewed, Dean turned, his mind suddenly racing and his entire body tense. She'd been part way through the ritual and he had no idea what would happen now that she was dead. Would the strength she had taken be returned? Would it not?

His brother was still tied to the floor, which was no surprise, and Dean couldn't tell if he was moving, if he was conscious, if he was...

He had to be alive. He _had_ to be.

Going to his knees, he looked desperately at his brother. "Sam?"

Sam's limbs were still pulled taut, which looked uncomfortable as hell, but Sam's face was lax in unconsciousness--and it was unconsciousness, because Dean could see the shallow, rapid rise and fall of his brother's chest.

But that was the good news.

The bad news was that Sam was unconscious and remained that way no matter what Dean did, no matter how he called or put a reassuring hand on his brother's naked shoulder--nothing. On top of that, Sam was pale, his features a little drawn.

But not shriveled. It sounded a little weird to even think it, but he had to be relieved. There was no prune-like quality to his little brother's visage, which, at the very least, meant that she hadn't completed the ritual.

Dropping his head, Dean let out a sigh. "Damn it, Sammy," he said. "I need you to wake up." Because hearing Sam's voice would make a world of difference. Hearing a bitchy comeback, a sarcastic swipe at Dean's timing--those were the things that told Dean _normal_ and _okay_ more than anything else.

Besides, Dean sort of wanted to make sure Sam still had his strength. As in, he could still lift his head

No matter how much he wanted to. he couldn't make Sam wake up. What he could do in the meantime was to take care of the kid. After all, strength sucking aside, Sam was still tied to the floor mostly naked. Maybe he'd be able to mock that someday (soon) but for right now, he wanted to keep his little brother's pride as intact as possible.

He couldn't do anything, though, until Sam was detached from the floor. It took a great deal of his willpower, but he forced his eyes from Sam's face and let them trail down Sam's elongated limbs to where each one was shackled to the floor.

Shackled.

This witch kept getting freakier and freakier.

The time she'd taken to attach _shackles _to the floor. That was time she could have spent bolstering her maniacal ways or even seducing unsuspecting men to a prune-y death.

Upon closer examination, the shackles were bolted to the floor--_bolted_, metal bolts pounded into the concrete floor. And the shackles themselves were almost archaic, probably made of steel, thick and a little corroded and this was like some terrible cliche that he should be making fun of were his little brother not _in_ the shackles.

Of course now he had to undo the shackles, which were annoyingly well clasped. Which, would be the point of shackles, Dean supposed but he needed to get Sam out of them _now_.

Pulling out his knife, Dean fiddled the locks, cursing as his hand slipped and Sam's hand jostled limply.

Repositioning, he fiddled the lock again, this time with success as the shackle popped open. Relieved, Dean moved swiftly over to Sam's other side and did the same thing on that shackle as well. Just as fast, Dean undid Sam's ankles before moving back up to his brother's face.

"Sammy? Hey, Sammy?"

Still nothing.

Sighing, Dean sat back on his heels, looking at the ceiling. This entire night was one screwed up mess. This entire stupid hunt was screwed up. He should know better than to hunt witches. Witches and their altars and their spells and their damn bad taste.

He should have planned more. He should have known the plan better. He should have set up a contingency in case she didn't take the bait. He should have _made _her take the bait. He should have tracked her better, he should stopped her before she'd half-sucked Sam dry, he should have--

There was a groan.

Since the witch was dead and he was too busy monologuing to himself that left--

Sam.

His brother was moving slightly, his head rolling a little and his limbs jittering ever-so-slightly.

Leaning forward, Dean positioned himself in Sam's line of sight. "Sammy? You with me?"

Sam groaned again, louder this time, his eyelids fluttering open. His brow furrowed a little and his mouth straightened thinly. "Dean?"

Dean grinned. He still didn't know the whole situation, the full extent of whatever damage had been incurred and retained, but _damn_, it just felt good to hear his brother say his name. "Right here," he assured his brother.

Sam's nose wrinkled. "Lisa?"

"Our friendly soul sucking witch?"

Sam licked his lips, looking like he was still gathering himself. "Yeah."

"Dead."

Sam sighed a little, closing his eyes.

"Couldn't be helped," Dean told him. "I got here in time to see her making out with you or something equally disturbing."

Sam flinched a little at that, looking a little nauseated as he opened his eyes. "Yeah, apparently the ritual was a bit...intimate."

"That the reason she had you in your boxers."

Sam tried to sit up a little at that, looking down over his own body with a look of faint horror. "I sort of forgot about that."

Dean offered him a hand, propping his brother up to a sitting position. "Well, trust me, I'd like to forget it, too. Do you know where your clothes are?"

"Gee, I forgot to ask her that as she was going on about her maniacal plans of control and summoning demons to steal my strength."

"Getting sloppy then, little brother," Dean quipped. "So you're sure that's what it was then?"

"I had a nice, front row seat to the summoning ritual," Sam confirmed. "Not to mention the firsthand account I could give you of what it feels like to have someone try to pull your strength out of you."

"I was wondering how she managed to haul you out of there like that."

Sam looked disturbed. "Took you long enough to follow me," he said. "I mean, after she knocked me out, you thought, what, you'd take a detour?"

"I got sidetracked," Dean protested.

"I got choked out!"

"I know," Dean said. "Makes me want to make you brush up on your hand to hand."

Sam rolled his eyes. "We had to find the lair. That was the whole point of you being bait to begin with."

"Not my fault she had bad taste."

"More than bad taste," Sam said.

"Proof that she was insane."

"In more ways than one."

Dean sighed, patting Sam's shoulder. "You're not feeling sorry for her, are you?"

Sam took a deep breath. "She was attacked, Dean," he said. "Some guy took advantage of her."

"Doesn't give her the right to take advantage of others," Dean said. "Much less practice this kind of dark magic."

"I know," Sam agreed. "Makes her a little more human, though."

"Are you forgetting about the part where she choked you out, dragged you to a basement and chained you to a floor before groping you and trying to steal your strength to the point where you died?"

Sam just rolled his eyes, trying to push up to his feet. Paranoid, Dean followed him up, hovering conspicuously. Sam wavered for just a moment before steadying himself and looking resolved.

"You going to be okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam said, a little breathless. "Whatever she did, you must have undone it."

"Given the way she looks, she certainly doesn't seem to have any strength left in her," Dean said. "Which is good, because I didn't want to have to drag around a shriveled up excuse for a little brother. You're enough work as it is."

Sam just snorted. "Need I remind you who she passed up in that bar?"

"Yeah, well, you attract the demonic psychos and I'll stick to the eligible girls who don't want to kill me."

"Are you just going to stand there and make excuses or help me find my clothes there, Romeo?"

"At this rate, I may just leave you without your clothes and see how far you get."

Sam pulled away, glaring at him. "Do I need to remind you how I ended up this way?"

Dean just shook his head, the tension leaving his body. It had been a long night, a way _too_ long night. Between the witch and the abduction and all of it, it was just a relief for it to be over. He had Sam, they finished the hunt. And hell, ding, dong, the witch was dead, and that was good enough for him.

-o-

Sam could sort of understand why Dean hated witches. Not that he hadn't had reason to hate them before, but now, after being abducted by one and chained to the floor by one, then the groping and that didn't even start him thinking about the whole idea of one sucking his strength out while shoving her tongue down his throat.

So much of it was part of the job. The abduction, even the chaining, and sometimes even the groping. But damn, that strength sucking thing sort of lingered with him.

Despite many protestations and various wisecracks, Dean had helped him find his clothes and had hovered discreetly while they cleaned up the mess and made their way back to the car. He'd slept hard that night and hadn't wanted to wake up until Dean forced him to get up for lunch the next day. After which, he promptly went back to sleep for another 18 hours.

When he finally woke up for real, it was late morning. Dean had been restless and had sort of pounced on him like a caged animal, desperate to do something, _anything_. After a shower, which Dean had begrudgingly consented to allow Sam to take (because after two days, Sam looked pretty gross), they headed out for an early lunch or a late breakfast or both, given Dean's order of eggs and a cheeseburger.

They would have hit the road after that, since the hunt was done and they'd checked out of the motel, but Dean was loitering, leaned up against the car, playing with a toothpick he'd gotten from the restaurant.

"So we can make it to the state line before nightfall," Sam said. "You know, if we get started now."

"Yeah," Dean said, shrugging.

Not exactly a ringing endorsement. "Or we could just sit here."

"It's a nice day," Dean said.

Sam leaned against the car next to him, looking out over the parking lot. "I guess."

"We spend too much time indoors."

"Sorry?"

"You slept for like two days," Dean pointed out.

"I had the strength sucked out of me."

"That's because you got abducted by a witch."

Sam bristled a little, annoyed. "That was part of the plan."

"She choked you out."

"Again, part of the plan," Sam said, feeling his ire rankling.

"Just made me think."

"About?"

Dean turned and looked at him. "We need to practice."

Sam rolled his eyes, sighing. "Are you serious?"

"Well we don't want any chicks getting the one up on you again, do we?"

"I don't suppose me reminding you of the plan will do much good, will it?"

Dean patted Sam on the shoulder. "Always full of excuses."

And that was about all Sam could take. "Bring it."

Dean just grinned. "You're on."

-o-

They found a field just outside of town. Right off the highway and abandoned enough that no one would see them or care to stop if they did.

Their lives were full of fields like this, makeshift training grounds, target ranges, the works. With a lack of constancy in their lives, Sam had learned to both count on these things and loathe them all at once.

They had stripped their layers and their jackets until they were clad only in jeans and t-shirts. And tennis shoes--no sense risking serious harm with the boots they sometimes wielded.

The day was warm and the sun was still high in the sky. The field was dusty and a little brownish, and Sam tried to loosen his muscles. He was good and he was in shape, no doubt, but the whole thing with the witch, he had to admit, was leaving him feeling a little rundown.

They were circling each other. Dean was smirking, his body crouched and ready to pounce. Sam cracked his neck and prepared himself.

This was Dean's idea. Dean would strike first.

The first assault was a barrage of punches, which Sam easily dodged and blocked. Sam returned with a kick that only caught Dean glancingly.

They parried like that for awhile, back and forth, blocking more than they landed, a testing of the waters.

It was Dean who made the first breakthrough, a well-placed charge at Sam's legs, which sent him to the ground hard on his backside.

Sam felt the thump and stifled a curse as Dean followed it up by grappling at Sam's arm. Knowing this was not a position he wanted to be in, Sam scrambled, rolling away the best he could, but Dean was on him hard and fast, nearly succeeding in mounting him from behind.

It was sheer strength and size that allowed Sam to escape at all, and he forced his way out of Dean's firm grasp and found his way to his feet, throwing a kick at Dean's upper body before his brother had a chance to follow suit.

Dean went down and Sam launched himself. Anticipating the action, Dean turned to his side, which caused Sam to throw himself wide, and they tussled in the dirt.

They kicked up dust and Sam felt the grass rub rough against his arms. It was a blur of motion and Sam worked to regain his bearings. Then, for one horrible moment, Sam was beneath, Dean on top with a grin on his face.

He had to move--now, or risk brotherly humiliation. He couldn't go down quite this quickly on the first round.

Using their momentum, Sam hurtled his body as best he could, using an arm to wrench Dean to the side.

They rolled again and Sam ended up on his feet, hunched defensively while his brother regrouped.

Dean was smirking. Positively smirking. He was _loving_ this.

Sam was a bit flabbergasted. His brother was something else indeed. "You like this?"

Dean just grunted a bit, breathlessly. "Aw, come on, Sammy? You love it, too."

And Sam just grinned. "I'm going to love kicking your ass."

"Nah, you're going to love _trying_," Dean said.

Sam's mouth turned up in amused provocation. "Bring it."

Dean charged and Sam had to stop thinking and just react. They didn't stop until they were both panting and breathless, smudged with dirt and aching. Dean had landed a pin or two and Sam had nailed Dean with a handful of submissions that would leave them both sleeping hard that night.

And as they both sat in the field, trying to catch their breath, not talking, just breathing, Sam couldn't help but think that this was part of the plan all along.


End file.
